


Who Lives For an Enemy

by deathofaraven



Series: Prompt Responses [10]
Category: Professor Moriarty Series - Michael Kurland
Genre: Holmes is a little bit of an ass, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Prompt Response, Unresolved Tension, Wound Tending, accidental head rubs, one thinks it's unrequited; the other's clueless, there's lots of soft touches though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: Touch is a curious thing, with curious results.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty
Series: Prompt Responses [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1002828
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	Who Lives For an Enemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dynamics-of-an-asteroid](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dynamics-of-an-asteroid).



> I'm sorry how long this prompt took to write. >_< I've rewritten it four times since...my notes say December of 2018. Jfc, self. Anyway. I was thinking this is set somewhere in earlier canon--ie. Infernal Device/Death by Gaslight, end of the 1880s kinda thing, as opposed to their TGG/Reichenbach casualness--but that's kinda unimportant so feel free to ignore this bit. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> \--
> 
> Prompt: "Non-sexual intimacy prompt: patching up a wound"
> 
> \--
> 
>  _“Whoever lives for the sake of combating an enemy has an interest in the enemy's staying alive.”_  
>  ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

It feels strange, having someone else’s fingers in his hair. It’s not as though he’d never been touched in a way one might call _familiar_ —people have attempted to tidy him, doctors have been thorough in checking him over, and clients have occasionally taken liberties with his personal space. But…he doesn’t think he’s ever been touched quite like _this_. Such a soft touch, barely there, combing his hair away from a throbbing wound in his scalp. That, in itself, is an odd juxtaposition, the lightness of the touch against the stinging burn of a wound, and it’s doing nothing for his mood.

Granted, Sherlock Holmes has been experiencing varying levels of annoyance for most of the day. What had started with little case-related frustrations had eventually led to the accident—or, at least, to the obviously purposeful assault that had led to him accidentally breaking a fall with his head. _Unpleasant_. In many regards.

Under normal circumstances, he might have placed some of the blame for his temper on his _old friend_ , Professor Moriarty, but…Moriarty isn’t being particularly villainous at the moment and Holmes is not in the mood for suspicion. His hands are light and quick; the hands of a scientist, used to manipulating finicky materials with minimal fuss. Enough so that Holmes remains seated and _doesn’t_ shove him away as he evaluates him in an effort to see if a doctor should be summoned.

“You’re in luck,” Moriarty observes, carefully tilting Holmes’s chin and jaw up to get a better look at the bruises that are slowly beginning to surface across his cheek and the scrapes that matched them, “it’s only superficial.”

Holmes responds with a petulant huff, sulking in a perfect imitation of a much aggrieved toddler as Moriarty releases him. He’d suspected as much. Nothing feels broken or too badly damaged. All he’d really like is a bit of morphine for the pain and a nice, long nap, but that doesn’t seem like an option that he can choose just yet. “I find the depth much less vexing than the fact that it happened under any circumstances.”

He preoccupies himself with rolling up his shirtsleeve and checking what damage has been done to his arm. A few scrapes. Nothing that couldn’t be solved with a bath and some rest, though the ever-present needle marks on his forearm undoubtedly makes it look worse than it is.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Moriarty pause as he turns back to him. A moment later, there’s a sigh and a damp cloth is held in his general direction. “One cannot account for every unlikely eventuality.”

Holmes considers it as he wipes the dirt and blood, already dried and flaking, from his arm. “I wouldn’t have thought you were an advocate for the unexpected, Professor.”

“You _should_ know better, Holmes. Despite my reputation for omniscience, I find myself surprised by the nature of the universe almost daily.”

The cynic in him nearly contests this. Moriarty _can’t_ be serious. Even after the most fascinating of cases, the world tended to fade back into dull tedium, as regular and expected as the tide. Sometimes the lack of surprise lasted weeks. Dragged on until the concept of getting out of bed and facing the day lost all meaning. But then…maybe he _does_ mean it. Moriarty had always found interest in places Holmes did, or could, not. Despite all their alleged similarities, perhaps this was simply another difference between them.

Holmes drops the cloth into a nearby basin of water, watching thin threads of rusty red slowly curl out into the water only to fade into nothingness. Their similarities and differences are not subjects he wishes to linger over.

Baker Street is too still at this time of night. Dim and shadowy. Quiet without people busy on the street outside or Mrs. Hudson pottering about the ground floor. His hands twitch at the distant rattle of a carriage somewhere further down the street. He feels…fidgety. Awkward about sitting here, on his sofa, with Moriarty hovering quietly over him. But before Holmes can think up some excuse to shoo him from the flat, Moriarty retrieves the cloth. Wrings it out and carefully takes hold of Holmes’s jaw once more.

“What are you doing?”

“Your wounds may be superficial,” Moriarty begins, tilting Holmes’s head just so without seeming to notice he’s gone perfectly still, “but they _should_ be cleaned.”

“I am _perfectly capable_ —”

Holmes’s protests die in his throat. The press of the cloth against his scalp isn’t as soft as the earlier touches had been. It stings, hot and sharp, forcing an occasional wince from him. But Moriarty _is_ being cautious, tentative with every movement as he gently wipes away the dirt and drying blood.

Jaw tight, Holmes keeps his eyes trained on the windows across the room, mentally tracing the patterns of their drapes as he tries to keep from focusing on Moriarty. It’s an awkward thing, being looked over by this man. More uncomfortable still that, in his current position, he’s sitting level with Moriarty’s hip. It feels alarmingly vulnerable. Dangerous in a way he can neither name nor understand. He feels certain he should say something. _Anything_. Any word at all if it might ruin the peace that is slowly settling over his too-dark flat. Words have, in fact, come to mind, only to immediately catch in the base of his throat. Welling up, thick and useless, only to be swallowed back down again.

And still Moriarty _is_ being unduly gentle. Taking his time. Ensuring there’s no debris remaining in a scrape before presumably moving on in search of the next. His fingers slowly graze against Holmes’s scalp. Send tingles of sensation through him. They seem to coalesce just beneath his skin in the same sort of jittery anxiety that often accompanies a lightning storm. For some reason it reminds him of some of the more scandalous articles in the newspapers, and the reasons why people kept complaining that Hyde Park ought to be better illuminated.

“Is it sprained?” Holmes nearly blurts out the enquiry, still in search of a distraction.

Moriarty’s gaze flicks briefly down to where his hand is cradling Holmes’s jaw. He’s been holding his wrist oddly since their earlier encounter. There’s no evidence of a broken bone nor does it seem to be causing any hindrance to his movement, but the swelling alone is suggestive that it must be causing some amount of pain. (Again for reasons he can’t quite name, the petty enjoyment he takes in the thought of beating Moriarty is nowhere to be found. He’s not quite certain why the reality of him being hurt is as concerning as it is.)

“Bruised, I should think,” Moriarty corrects, returning his focus to his search for any scrapes or bruises that may have eluded him.

Holmes looks away with a glance he’d intended to be a nod. His mind has turned to static. He has nothing else he can think to say.

For all his resistance, and all his self-created conflict, this is…soothing? No, not soothing. _Enjoyable_ , even if he’s loathe to admit it to himself. It’s an effort to keep from relaxing into Moriarty’s methodical touch. His neck feels too loose, as if balanced on a string. Almost languid. He gives in with a sigh, silently willing Moriarty to hurry.

Moriarty doesn’t oblige him.

Time slips away. Holmes doesn’t notice he’s closed his eyes at first, too focused on the shivers of sensation running against his skin. It’s only when Moriarty pauses—what feels like an hour, but must have only been a handful of minutes, at most, later—that he fully takes stock of himself: eyes shut, face tilted up, like someone struggling not to fall asleep. He tries and fails to rouse himself. The too-still moment lingers longer that it should; he can all but _feel_ Moriarty thinking.

The next time Moriarty touches him, he can’t pretend it’s anything other than a caress. His fingers comb through Holmes’s hair, away from his wound. Warm, careful; he strokes the pad of his thumb over Holmes’s brow as if to soothe. Holmes leans into it without conscious thought, nerve-endings flaring to life like fireworks, a drunken haze of stimulation that nearly makes him shiver. A distant part of his mind insists that this is probably a bad idea—immoral by societal standards, maybe; he’s not certain right now. It’s abruptly very difficult to think or to remember why he was attempting to remain cross with Moriarty to begin with. Everything is hazy.

Moriarty rubs light circles against his scalp, weakening his composure without even really trying. Holmes feels himself waver, as if he might fall forward, into Moriarty, only to catch himself at the last moment. He doesn’t open his eyes. The overbearing silence of the room has faded into the heavy, too-tranquil thud of his pulse in his ears. He suspects it might be a good idea to tell Moriarty to leave—if this continues, surely he’ll end up melting into the sofa or falling asleep and neither option sounds like one he could face without some measure of embarrassment—but he still can’t seem to gather up the will to do so.

The thought of this stopping is unpleasant.

Almost as if acknowledging that thought, Moriarty withdraws his hand. It seems unjustly cruel, Holmes can’t help but think through a pang of…something he doesn’t care to evaluate. His eyes feel heavy as he tries to force his lids to open, but then there’s a chatter of water from the basin. Moriarty’s hand slips back into his hair. Accidentally tugs a little as it slides back, towards the top of his spine; draws a note from the depths of his throat—

Moriarty freezes. “Did you—?”

“Of course not,” Holmes insists far too quickly, eyes snapping open and cheeks burning red. It wasn’t a moan. He _didn’t_ moan. Not at all. It hardly even counted as a whimper, if anyone were to ask him.

But Moriarty looks devastatingly amused—standing there, repressing a smile and raising a brow as a damp cloth occasionally drips between his fingers. It’s almost painful to admit that he wears the expression well. Too well. Holmes’s gut does an annoying little flop. He grits his teeth, trying to bite back the embarrassment.

All at once, he recalls why he was intent on _not_ enjoying his companion’s company. Criminal. Villain. Even now, he probably had nefarious schemes being orchestrated somewhere in London. Despite the heat of those thoughts, a part of him is well aware he’s only deflecting. Attempting to lash out to make himself feel more certain of where he stands. Moriarty has been nothing but helpful since the start of their most recent partnership. Patient, understanding; a fine companion. He’s too embarrassed to linger over that.

“It’s nearly half-past midnight. You should leave if you have any intentions of finding a cab,” Holmes manages brusquely before he can stop himself.

He refuses to admit that his heart sinks as Moriarty’s expression falls, becoming impenetrably neutral.

“I’d had the intention of walking,” Moriarty admits. His voice gives no indication of how he feels. He holds out the cloth. “Your cheek and eye need seeing to.”

Frowning, Holmes roughly snatches up the cloth. Remembers too late that _that_ is Moriarty’s injured hand, and is unable to do anything to make the movement less aggressive. Moriarty hides his wince well, but doesn’t quite manage to keep it from showing. There’s a moment where they both pause. Unwilling to move. To look away. Both waiting for the other to speak. Moriarty’s uninjured hand flexes. Holmes’s gaze wavers. Whatever they’re waiting for doesn’t come.

Moriarty inclines his head, sardonically gentleman-like, and makes for the hall. He only stops to collect his coat, hat, and stick from a little table beside the door.

Holmes does nothing. Feels foolish. Is unsure which of them the frustration he feels roiling within him is directed at.

 _That was uncalled for_ , he chides himself. It’s not quite guilt that makes the thought so uncomfortable. Disappointment in himself, perhaps. The realisation that, once again, he was wrong. Moriarty’s intentions were not foul. This, whatever this had been, had been nice; _he_ was the only one to blame for it all falling apart. Impulse tugs him to his feet—he nearly ignores it, emotional responses have been far from useful tonight. A more logical thought guides him out into the hall.

“Professor?”

He finds Moriarty near the base of the stairs, within arm’s reach of the front door, shrugging into his coat. Moriarty meets his gaze; he doesn’t seem pleased by this interruption. Wary. Expecting Holmes to launch a verbal attack. (For once, it makes him feel a flicker of guilt. Remorse for the memory of fingers in his hair and the warm haze they’d inspired.)

“A moment, Professor,” he requests hurriedly, a foot still on the bottommost stair.

He doesn’t need to be a detective to see that Moriarty isn’t amused. “If you are harbouring any assumptions that I intend to listen to nonsense accusations—”

“I had no intentions of making them.”

Moriarty looks no less wary, but he seems intrigued as he straightens his coat and gives a little shrug. “What _did_ you intend, Holmes?”

He sounds reproachful—ever a professor, even in annoyance—but quietly resigned, as if he would tolerate anything Holmes might do, if only for a moment. Holmes takes the opportunity to approach him. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket as he does so, carefully, and tightly, folding it into a rectangle of semi-stiff fabric. Moriarty’s gaze is heavy on his face. But his skin is warm under his fingers as he takes his injured hand.

It feels like the moment for an apology. If it were anyone else, he probably _would_ apologise. But they don’t do that—they’re both too stubborn. Instead, he presses the handkerchief bundle to the inner-side of Moriarty’s wrist while tugging his own tie off with his free hand. Carefully wrapping his wrist in a flimsy, makeshift splint, Holmes finally says, “You wouldn’t want me to catch you over a meaningless little injury, would you?”

But it sounds contrite, lacking any trace of its usual smugness. And a little grateful.

“Careful, Holmes; I can still have you for slander,” Moriarty replies without any genuine bite.

Holmes chances a glance at him, but he doesn’t look annoyed anymore. Exhaustedly fond and somehow…sad. Wistful, if only in his eyes. He wants something—it’s written into every line of his posture, his expression. The intensity of his want, and an unspoken question embedded in it, takes Holmes aback as their gazes lock. He wants to ask what it means, but surely he’s embarrassed himself enough for one night.

“I doubt you would find a witness to support that claim at this hour. We’ll need to find another means to have each other in, I suppose.”

They’re standing too close again. Holmes notices _that_ first, but only after a prolonged pause has lingered between them once more. Then he realises he’s finished wrapping Moriarty’s wrist some time ago. Between then and now, their grasps have shifted until they stand as they are: hand in hand, in what looks like some oddly prolonged handshake but feels much too intimate. Holmes doesn’t know how that makes him feel. (The thought of evaluating the feeling is secretly rather frightening. Surely this is why logic is a better foundation for anything important than something so conflicting as emotions.) And he can’t keep from trying to study Moriarty in the vainest attempt at understanding what _he_ might be feeling.

“Good night, Holmes,” Moriarty finally bids, when they’ve lingered too long by the door. Too absent of words to justify remaining in so formal of a position.

“Good night, Professor,” Holmes concurs, letting his hand slip away. It feels oddly cold now. Empty.

Moriarty doesn’t hesitate to gather himself together and step out the door. He doesn’t look back. And, true to his word, he doesn’t make an attempt to call for a cab. Holmes watches him go, thinking, until the night, and London, have hidden him from view.


End file.
